Authors: Rachel Blaufeld
Vérité (34 page)
If I concentrated hard, I could remember being high last night, dancing on the makeshift bar until a guy lifted me off and took me somewhere else for another hit of something even better. Things were hazy after that.
Finally reaching my destination, I gently leaned my clammy forehead against the cool vibrations of the fridge/freezer combo, willing its chilled touch to drag the pain and awful thoughts away.
It didn’t.
Oh well, I’d come to prefer my current state of pain to the one I’d lived in as a little girl, and later as a misguided teenager left alone to her own devices. Yes, I would take dry mouth, a wicked hangover, and incessant jonesing for my next hit over watching my mom walk out or being left with an emotionally absent father.
Any day, hands down.
Speaking of hands, my fingers drifted back to the rat’s nest that was currently in my hair, my thick long waves twisted in a million different clumps only a bottle of conditioner and a tearful comb-out would solve. That was what I got for sleeping on the floor, resting my head on a burlap mat instead of a fluffy down-filled pillow in my bed.
After taking a small step backward, I opened the fridge door and grabbed the bottle of orange juice, then poured some into the dirty mug sitting next to where my bony hip was resting against the counter. I sipped it slowly, trying to avoid it sloshing in my stomach, and willed it not to come back up, which was no easy feat.
Take a tiny sip, Bess, then a big breath in through your nose and out.
I repeated this mantra until my eyes no longer watered. The natural sugar eased only the smallest pinch of pain, but just enough to make it so I could move.
When I turned a little too fast, the juice became a brutal rolling storm in my belly, threatening to come back up. Slowing my pace, I made my way to the bathroom for some useless ibuprofen and to pee.
With my butt on the ice-cold toilet seat, I looked at my watch. One o’clock in the afternoon. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly morning, but it was Friday, the one day I didn’t have any classes. Nothing missed, nothing lost.
I’d wiped and moved on wobbly legs to wash my hands and get the pills when I heard my phone beeping. Geez, that fucker was so loud. Where the hell was it? I leaned down, resting my hands on the vanity and thought hard, then felt it vibrate in my back pocket.
Bingo. Score one for Bess
. I found my phone without running upstairs to use the Find My iPhone app on my neighbor’s phone, which might have happened more times than I cared to admit.
I cupped some water in my hands and brought them up to my face, although most of it dribbled down my chin before I swallowed the tiny iridescent blue over-the-counter capsules that would bring little to no relief.
But who really wanted that?
Actual relief meant covering up the real pain that burned in the pit of my stomach, the empty ache I desperately tried to fill with boys or pills or booze. Or all of the above.
Turning and resting my butt on the sink to check out my text message, I rolled my eyes.
CAMPER:
Yoga with hot DJ & blacklight. 5:30 p.m.
With stiff fingers, I typed out a response that turned into a conversation.
ME
: Seriously? Happy hour instead?
CAMPER
: Nope. Yoga, then margs at Texi Mexi in our sweaty yoga gear.
ME
: Say pretty please.
CAMPER
: Pretty please! Be ready at 5.
I didn’t respond; I knew there was no talking Camper out of it. Besides, she lived one floor up, and she and her long legs and big curly head would show up at five o’clock whether I said yes or no.
Whipping around sixty-five miles an hour too fast for my current state, I faced the medicine cabinet again and pulled out the tiny first aid kit covered in pink and purple kitty stickers, opening the stupidly concealed container with caution. That box, proof of my stunted childhood, held everything that was precious and sacred to me. Carefully, I took stock of its contents: two extra-lush joints, five tabs of Molly, and a few oxy.
Shit, I was low on pharmaceuticals. I made a mental note to call my “guy” before plucking a pretty little Molly or two out of the box. I needed to dim the pain slowly seeping from my heart, and while I was at it, enhance the upcoming yoga experience a touch.
I wasn’t sure how Camper did it; that girl raged as hard as I did. Didn’t she?
We’d been friends since freshman year, immediately bonding when we’d found ourselves in a nearby tattoo parlor during orientation week. We were both taking the first bold move of our college lives, establishing our independence with a permanent reminder on our fresh and creamy young skin.
Despite her bubbly nature and peppy white smile that often clashed with my somber demeanor, we’d been inseparable ever since. Living the last two years in the same apartment building, taking identical courses, covering for each other, and most importantly, avoiding Friday classes so we could live it up Thursday through Sunday.
Setting my magic pills on the dresser, I stripped out of my smelly clothes from the night before. As they fluttered to the floor, I watched their descent, remembering moments of my own extremely real downward spiral.
Then I crawled naked between my cool sheets, shutting my eyes for a moment or three hours.
Read other books by Rachel Blaufeld
Many projects were pushed aside to make room for this book, and without certain people, this wouldn’t have happened.
A huge thank-you to my family for eating more Chinese takeout than humanly possible during this last adventure, and supporting me in all my crazy ideas. For my husband, who pretends to listen to my endless rambling—you deserve something incredible. I don’t know what, but when I figure it out, I’ll let you know. I love you all very much.
An extra special thank-you goes to my oldest son, who guided me in accurately writing the details of college hoops (without peeking at any other parts of the book). Thanks for having my back, J.
Thanks go out to:
Pam, my editor, for your guidance, encouragement, and iron fist when it comes to ellipses and sentences that never end. Sometimes all it takes is one encouraging comment from you to brighten my week. Leaning on you grammatically, often daily, makes this all possible.
Sarah Hansen, who also regularly talks me through my own personal angst and drama, for creating the most gorgeous cover ever. Thank you, as always.
My betas—Robin, Stacey, Virginia, and Jennifer—had this project tossed in their laps and worked fast to turn around incredible feedback and translate
shit
into French (literally). I’m pretty sure I talk to all of you more than my mom. Please don’t tell her . . . and never repeat our conversations! I’ll be sharing a cocktail with all of you soon, and I can’t wait!
Debra Doxer, who’s more than a special pen pal, you’re my colleague and confidante. You gave up a weekend to find the holes in this story and set me straight. I love you dearly.
Erin Noelle, I’m not sure how or when we started talking, but thank God we did. Thank you for taking time in the middle of your own book release to encourage me. I’ve come to rely on our co-bitching sessions.
Nicole Snyder, who recently came into my life and helps make everything run smoothly and seamlessly. I adore you, as my daily early-morning e-mails profess. Thank you for your passion and dedication to “your authors.”
Neda Amini, for taking me under your wing and helping me put together the most amazing blog tour. And for telling me I don’t look old enough to have a teenage son. You know how to “woo” a girl.
Nothing in my life is complete without the sweet smile of Becca Manuel and her fan-made trailers. There’s nothing like seeing your characters come alive in front of you . . . even if it’s only on YouTube.
Special thanks to Emily Tippets and Stacey Tippets for making my books work and look great.
And to those who continue to believe in me . . . Terilyn Smitsky, Virginia Tesi Carey, Maryse Black, Fran and Greta of
Twin Sisters
, Michelle Kannan, Sarah Wendell, Milasy at
Rockstars of Romance
, Jennifer Wolfel, Desiree at
Love Affair with Books
, and all the women of
The Lovely Ladies and Naughty Books
. Your encouragement and advice is priceless and the pot of gold at the end of my rainbow.
For all the bloggers who work day and night to help spread the word, I can never thank you enough. I know what it means to be in your shoes . . . and you do it for the love of reading!
To my author friends who hold my hand daily—Ilsa Madden-Mills, Madeline Sheehan, Erin Noelle, Joanne Schwehm (
partner in crime
), Ashley Suzanne, Nicole Jacquelyn, Heidi McLaughlin, Jen Frederick, Susan Ward (
mom #2
), Debra Doxer, Fabiola Francisco, Christy Pastore, and Lisa N. Paul. When I yell “help,” you come running, thank God!
I also have a few amazing people who cheer the loudest for me, and on a bad day that means everything. Stefani, Susan (who wants me to make a movie!), Marla, Lisa, my Charlie Hunnam girls on Twitter (Cheryl, Angela, Michelle, Office Lady, Nicole, Kelly, and Kimberly), the Electric Tunnellettes (Debra, Gretchen), and of course, last but not least . . . my mom!
Many thanks go out to YOU, the readers! I seriously adore each and every one of you. You make me want to write more, to dig deeper and be more creative. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
If you enjoyed this book (or maybe even loved it to pieces), please leave a review where you purchased it or on Goodreads. Then send me an
e-mail
so I can thank you personally!
Rachel Blaufeld is a social worker/entrepreneur/blogger turned author. Fearless about sharing her opinion, Rachel captured the ear of stay-at-home and working moms on her blog,
BacknGrooveMom
, chronicling her adventures in parenting tweens and inventing a product, often at the same time. She has also blogged for
The Huffington Post
,
Modern Mom
, and
StartupNation
.
Turning her focus on her sometimes wild-and-crazy creative side, it only took Rachel two decades to do exactly what she always wanted to do—write a fiction novel. Now she spends way too many hours in local coffee shops plotting her ideas. Her tales may all come with a side of angst and naughtiness, but end lusciously.
Rachel lives around the corner from her childhood home in Pennsylvania with her family and two dogs. Her obsessions include running, coffee, icing-filled doughnuts, antiheroes, and mighty fine epilogues.
Please connect with me on:
Vérité
Copyright © 2015 Rachel Blaufeld
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9915928-6-9
Edited by
Pam Berehulke
Cover design by
© Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, LLC
Image
© Corbis/Inmagine
Ebook designed and formatted by:
